


Behind Enemy Lines

by JoulesIsIronic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Hurt!Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Pre-Slash, Sexual Assault, Torture, canon compliant up to 02X12 "The Master Plan"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:22:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoulesIsIronic/pseuds/JoulesIsIronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sheriff searches for Stiles during his kidnapping at the hands of Gerard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Enemy Lines

_“Where’s Stiles? Where the hell is my son?”_

The Sheriff would like nothing more than to turn his full attention to his missing son, but there’s a dead teenager on the field and he knows that there’s more to the story than what he can see on the surface. He remembers how the all the lights on the field went black in synchrony, and someone _screaming_ , and when the lights came back, one player was dead and another was missing. He can’t help but wonder if the two are connected and if his teenager is going to be the next body they find. 

His instincts are screaming something about how perfect the timing was (too perfect). He knows that two’s only a coincidence, but it sure as hell was a damn _convenient_ coincidence. Unless Stiles is fine. Unless he went out to celebrate the victory prematurely. Without telling his dad. Without his friends. Without his car.

The jeep is still at the school. He knows – _he can’t_ – he knows what that means. Even if he doesn’t want to. And he knows he’s blinded by emotion and he’s too close to the situation to think straight, but he needs to find his son. The drive is too strong for him to ignore, even though there’s a dead teenager being carted away and even though as the Sheriff it’s his job to investigate, to make sure no other civilians are killed; but it’s his son who’s missing (his son who could be the next victim) and he’ll be damned if he waits around while his kid is in danger. 

Besides, the corpse isn’t going anywhere. He thinks he should be alarmed by his current lack of empathy or at least feel some kind of dread about the fury he knows he’ll inevitably face from the Whittemores if they find he put off the investigation of their son’s death until the next morning. But he’s so racked up on nerves, so tense with worry about Stiles, that it barely registers in his thoughts.

So when the field is finally cleared out, he searches for anything that might help. For signs of a struggle. For blood. The field’s already covered in blood (twice, in such a short period of time, and by two people who were once dating, he can’t help thinking and wondering about), but he does notice trails of dirt that start near where his son was last seen (they look like _drag_ marks). It might be a long shot, but he follows because (even if it was someone simply dragging equipment away) it’s the only thing resembling a clue that he’s found.

The marks don’t head toward the school. They don’t head toward the parking lot, either. Instead, they wind around near a bunch of trees, just past the bleachers (the two pairs of footprints accompanying the tracks seeming more and more ominous), and stop at a pair of muddy tire tracks. The prints have become far more scattered, far more fumbling, and the drag trail has become a mismatch of dug-up earth (definitely a struggle).

He follows the trail on foot, terrified it’ll disappear if he leaves it alone. The woods in this area aren’t particularly thick, mostly there to pretty-up the school and the town by extension. It doesn’t take long for the tracks to find road, veering off from the muddy, makeshift dirt trail and entering traffic at a well-lit, well-populated area. He doesn’t follow into the road, though the traffic is long past peak hour, but he gazes around at the businesses nearby, searching for a building with a—

His eyes dart to the bank, a mere dozen feet away. If he has any luck, any at all – and at this point, he feels like he’s owed _something_ – there will be a traffic camera near that bank. He feels a surge of misplaced gratefulness for the string of bank robberies several years back that had prompted the installation of such cameras as a backup for identifying fleeing crooks. The cameras had fulfilled their purpose then, and he hopes they have yet again come to his aid, catching a glimpse of the alleged getaway vehicle.

That is, _if_ those tracks had been from the getaway vehicle, and not a handful of rambunctious teenagers.

And _if_ that camera is pointed at just the right angle.

It’s too many “ifs” for the Sheriff to feel even an ounce of security, but it’s the only trail he’s got.

He makes a mental note of the approximate time the vehicle would have darted into the road and makes a call to the station to get a head start. They’ve already lost enough time as it is; he refuses to waste any more while his son is out there, possibly hurt, possibly….

The Sheriff doesn’t even realize he’s run the whole way back to his patrol car until he’s in the driver’s seat, seatbelt on, turning the key in the ignition. 

Some fancy tech guy has already managed to access the video feed and has it ready when the Sheriff rushes through the station doors. He can’t help but see (just for a moment) the bodies that had littered the ground just days earlier, and there are still splotches of blood stained on the walls and the floors. Stiles was with him then, too. They’d just barely gotten out of that one, and now….

His deputy watches the video with him, and if he notices the Sheriff’s sharp intake of breath when a black SUV peels into the road from seemingly out of nowhere, he doesn’t say anything. The Sheriff pauses the tape and it takes a few tries before they can get a clear enough shot at the license plates. Under normal circumstances, he’d run the plates, make a visit to the address listed, ask a few questions, and move on from there. But who knows if the vehicle even _belongs_ to the kidnappers; it might have been stolen for all he knows. And it’s his _son_ who’s missing. He can’t help picturing abandoned buildings and hidden cabins far off the beaten trail, and he needs to know where that vehicle is _now_. He doesn’t have time to waste driving around to _possible_ locations. New SUVs like that are supposed to have GPS, so he makes a few phone calls and cashes in on a few favors to get an address. 

By the time he’s done, his deputy has been called away on a break-in across town and there’s far less than a handful of officers left at the station. As much as he’d like to drag someone along with him, the station’s been left with a skeleton crew after the brutal murders just days earlier. They’re stretched thin as it is, and he can’t pull one of his men or women off of a case.

Besides, who knows what he’ll find. It might be better if there are no witnesses…. He knows he can have quite the temper when it comes to the safety of his son.

He shakes his head at the thought and rushes from the station, barely stopping at traffic signals as the patrol car’s navigation directs him toward the address. The street and number are familiar, like he’s heard it before. So is the last name of one of the nearest houses: Argent. His son knows an Argent, he thinks: an Allison Argent.

Maybe it’s a misunderstanding. Maybe his son is just with one of his friends, and forgot to call or tell his best friend or his father he was leaving. And had to be dragged along….

His hands tense on the steering wheel and he’s careful as he pulls along the curb. He notices his breathing is labored and that his hand is gravitating toward the gun on his holster. That would be a bad idea, he knows, going in guns a-blazing. If it is a big misunderstanding, he would lose his job; if it’s not, and it is a hostage situation, he could get Stiles killed.

 _Emotionally compromised_. The word pounds through his head and he knows it’s true. He already knew he was too close to the situation, but he doesn’t have it in him to stand by while someone he loves is in danger. He wonders if that’s where his son gets his impulsivity.

He takes a moment to walk by the large SUV parked in the driveway and gazes inside. Through the shadows he spies dark spots on the backseat upholstery and he wonders if he only sees it because he expects to see it.

As he walks toward the front door he mulls over what to say. If he mentions the GPS in the car, they might shut down immediately and ask for a warrant. In the time it takes to get a warrant, his kid could be moved or killed. Something needles at his chest and he realizes he should have considered that before rushing recklessly from the station. He could lie; it’s unbefitting of an officer of the law, but he could. Could say something about tracking Stiles’ cellphone GPS here after he went missing from the game, mentioning that Stiles knows a kid from school with the last name Argent; could play up the concerned father routine to its fullest and manipulate his way into that house to get a good, long look around.

His decision (guileless or not) is made before he pounds on the door, doing his best to make his worry show over his anger. There’s a shuffle on the other side of the door, some voices, then the door is pulled open and he’s staring at the principal of his son’s school.

It takes him a moment to shake off the surprise.

“May I help you, Sheriff?” the older man asks, smiling. The Sheriff doesn’t like that smile. He’s seen those looks before, those kinds of predatory glints in people’s eyes. 

He suppresses a shudder.

“I hope so,” he says as calmly as he can, trying to sound like the anxious father he is. “My son Stiles plays for the lacrosse team at school.” Argent nods. “Well, he went missing after the game and he hasn’t been answering his phone, so I traced the GPS…”

He notices a tensing around Argent’s eyes, and the way his lips press together.

“And, well, the GPS led me here,” the Sheriff continues. “And I remembered he had a friend with the last name Argent. Allison, I think?” Definitely Allison. He’s met the girl. He now remembers pulling her over not too long ago. “So I thought maybe I could come in and talk to her? See if she’s heard from him….”

The Sheriff is already leaning into the door as he says that, more of a warning than a question. Argent doesn’t move.

“I’m afraid you just missed her,” Argent says. “I was just leaving to meet her, actually. She’ll probably be home in a few hours.”

The Sheriff forces himself to smile. “Of course, of course. You wouldn’t mind if I come in to take a look for Stiles’ phone, would you, in case he dropped it here? He might have left a message on it for me.”

Argent looks like he, too, is forcing himself to stay civil, and his lips are tensely pressed together. “I’m afraid not,” he replies, trying to sound considerate. “I don’t think Allison would approve of someone rifling through her belongings without her permission, especially when she’s in such a fragile state.” He pauses. “After all, the poor girl just lost her mother. I can take a quick look before I leave, if you’d like to wait here?”

The Sheriff nods curtly, trying to smile but knowing his expression is likely verging more on hostile than worried. His nerves are preventing him from schooling his features, and again he can feel his fingers itching for his sidearm. Argent pays him no mind, reciprocating the expression before backing through his threshold and holding up his pointer finger, pushing the door closed with his other hand as he does so.

He knows it’s reckless and that if he’s wrong he’ll lose his job (thus reducing his chances of finding his kid), but all of his instincts are screaming that his _son_ is in that house, somewhere, and that Argent _knows_ it.

Argent is gone for less than a minute before he pulls the door open, keys in his hand, his expression unfazed. “I’m afraid I couldn’t find anything,” he says, trying and failing to sound sympathetic. “I can ask her to look for it, though, when we get back. If she finds it, well, your number will already be in it, and she can give you a call.”

“Right,” the Sheriff says, nodding. Argent steps outside, turning a key into the lock, listening as it clicks into place. 

“Well, I really must be going. Big plans,” the older man says, stepping past the Sheriff. “I’ll pass along the message to Allison while we’re out. I’m sure you two can work something out.”

“Of course,” the Sheriff says, turning deliberately to head to his car, taking his time as he walks. He has his fingers on the handle when Argent backs out of the driveway (in the same SUV, the Sheriff can’t help but notice), offering a little wave as he drives away. 

When the car is out of sight, the Sheriff turns back toward the house. Breaking and entering is illegal, he knows that, but it doesn’t stop him from grabbing a lock pick from his wallet, working as quickly as he can to unlatch the door.

It finally opens with a soft click, and the Sheriff takes great care to slip in, quietly shutting and relocking the door behind him. He knows there are other people in the house; he’d heard multiple muffled voices before, so he does his best to stay in the shadows and _listen_ , paying attention to every sound in the building.

There are footsteps upstairs and quiet voices downstairs; as he creeps closer to what he assumes is the basement door, they grow slightly clearer. The door is already cracked, light streaming into the dark hallway. He presses his eye to the slit, peering through; he can see stairs, he can see a tall, bulky man’s back, and he can see his son.

His knuckles crack (painfully audible to his own ears) as he scans what he can see of Stiles. His son is seated on a sturdy wooden chair, his wrists tied to the arms with several layers of thin, cutting rope. His ankles, bare of his cleats and socks, have received a similar treatment. Bruises cover his face; maybe other parts of him, too. A thick piece of material acts as a gag.

The man is gripping his son’s face tightly so that his fingers dig into the boy’s cheeks, leaving sharp, painful-looking indentions; another voice is laughing. Stiles glares. The man says something else, something he can’t quite make out, and Stiles swallows, his eyes fixing upon a spot on the floor.

The men laugh again.

The Sheriff’s gun is already in his hands, and he is slinking carefully and quietly down the stairs, attentively listening for more voices. He thinks there’s only two down there with his kid, but he’s not positive, and as much as he’d like to rush down there and rip that man away from his son, he forces himself to maintain his control because the sensible part of his mind is reminding him about the dangers of recklessness and the possibilities of unanticipated threats. His eyes scan the man that he can see for weapons and he thinks he can see the outline of a knife or gun; luckily, it’s not out, not directed at his son (yet). He hopes the same of the other man.

He tries to keep the shadows of the stairs, his gun cocked and aimed at the man’s back. The man is wrenching his son’s face up to look at him, and Stiles glares again, a muffled sound coming from behind his gag. The man snorts and releases his face just long enough to slap him. Stiles’ face snaps to the side, a little blood dripping from his mouth around the gag, and another sound comes from Stiles (a sound that is decidedly _not_ “thank you”).

Both men laugh, but the one he can see grabs Stiles face again, and now the Sheriff is close enough to hear him when he says, “I can think of better ways for you to use that pretty little mouth of yours.”

Stiles flinches (though it’s clear that he’s steadfastly trying not to). His eyes dart away and widen in surprise when they land on the Sheriff, who can now see the other man, whose head, in turn, snaps in the Sheriff’s direction.

The second man (younger, leaner) doesn’t have any weapons on hand, but he does have a nasty looking knife strapped to his waist. But that’s not the surprise. The surprise is the two other teenagers, gagged and bound, trussed up to some electrical system: Vernon Boyd and Erica Reyes. He contemplates exactly how long they’ve been here, what these people want with three kidnapped teens, and faintly wonders if that Argent girl knows about any of this.

He keeps his gun pointed at the man closest to Stiles. His shot is clear; he’s at the right angle that he won’t hit Stiles if he misses.

“Get your hands off my son,” he manages to growl. The man eyes him warily but relinquishes his hold. He takes note of his blond, greying hair and the wrinkles around his eyes; the man’s probably older than him, and what he was saying to his son… How he was _threatening_ his son….

Suddenly, Stiles is making a _lot_ of noise and thrashing around, staring at something behind him…

He hears a creak on a stair above him and turns just in time to be slammed across the face with something hard and gun-shaped. He drops to the ground in a heap, seeing nothing but black.

***

The Sheriff has no idea how long he was unconscious, but he doesn’t think it was very long. He’s tied to a chair now, too, in the same way as Stiles. They’ve removed his jacket, everything from his pockets, and his gun. While he can see the majority of his belongings stretched out along a table across the room, he notes that his jacket and his car keys are not among them. His mouth is gagged.

They also made a point of putting Stiles in his direct line of sight, as though they want him to _watch_.

Stiles is staring at him, his expression worried. He looks more tense and fearful now than before. The Sheriff offers his son what he hopes is an “everything will be okay” look and tears his eyes away, looking around for the other kids. They’re still there, hanging by the electrified bindings, and he wonders what they possibly could have done to make those men (and/or the Argents) hate them enough to torture them.

The same also applies to his son, he realizes.

And maybe him.

He looks back at Stiles and can see the bruises more clearly. Some of them _might_ have been from lacrosse, but the majority are from this (he knows; he’s a father, he can tell). The Sheriff eyes the finger shaped bruises on his son’s arms and neck, and now that he’s close enough he can see that some of Stiles’ fingers have been broken. Stiles notices him noticing and cringes under the scrutiny.

There are only two men down in the basement again and they notice he’s awake. One of them strolls over to him, but the other (the older, bulkier, blond-gray one) walks behind Stiles, placing a hand on his shoulder. Stiles jerks.

The other one’s right in front of him, smirking. He has the Sheriff’s gun in his hand and seems to be weighing the weapon.

“Boss warned us you might cause trouble,” he says after a moment. “Said you were asking questions; that you seemed like the type that wouldn’t take no for an answer. Might have gotten the drop on us, otherwise.”

The pair of them bark out snorts of amusement. He spares a glance at Stiles and notices that hands are now on both of his shoulders, rubbing. The Sheriff’s wrists unconsciously strain against the ropes.

“We sent Doug with that fancy Sheriff’s jacket of yours to drive your patrol car to your house. Don’t want any more coppers snooping around here. As you can see, we kinda got a lot going on.”

Another round of laughter erupts from the two. 

The Sheriff remembers his hostage training and _knows_ not to antagonize them, so he does his best to look cowed and submissive. He remembers briefing Stiles on hostage behavior, too, years ago, but his son is nothing if not a fighter, and right now that terrifies him.

And although he _knows_ and has been _trained_ not to provoke the men with the guns, if that bastard doesn’t get his fucking hands off of his son….

He tries to force himself to keep his eyes on the man addressing him, but they intentionally put him right in line with his son, so no matter what Stiles is always in his sight.

The one in front of him glances back to where his eyes keep flickering and smiles, his eyes watching Stiles. “Yeah, Ernie over there’s taken a bit of a liking to that kid of yours,” he says nonchalantly, like he’s talking about the weather and not about some middle-aged creep putting his hands on a teenager.

The Sheriff tenses again when Ernie smirks, the man’s hands running down Stiles arms with light, lingering touches that trail from the hem of his jersey to the binds near his hands. Ernie’s face hovers near the back of his son’s neck, and he breathes in deeply, predatorily. Stiles won’t look at him, won’t look at anyone. Just keeps his eyes on the floor. The Sheriff notices the little movements in his wrists, though, and can see red seeping from under the ropes.

The man in front of him sighs and walks over to the table, placing the gun down. He grabs the Sheriff’s wallet instead and pokes through it, pocketing the few bills he left in there.

After a moment, he lets out another bark. “Sheriff, was this your _wife_?” he asks, holding out the picture. It’s of the three of them, from right before she got sick six years ago. “She was _gorgeous_!” he exclaims appreciatively. “God, the things I’d have done to her.”

The Sheriff can feel his skin heat up, and the look of outrage his son is expressing probably mirrors his own. Across the room, Stiles tries to say something that all three men guess isn’t particularly polite, and the man holding the wallet chuckles. 

Ernie changes positions to Stiles’ side – almost blocking him from the Sheriff’s view so that he can barely glimpse his son’s profile – and caresses the boy’s face. The burly man moves in closer, threatening in a low voice, “Remember what I said about that mouth.” 

Stiles tries to squirm away, but Ernie keeps a hold on his head. The Sheriff himself tries to yell into his gag, attempts to distract them, but he can only watch with painful helplessness as they ignore him, and Ernie moves his lips closer to the boy’s ear to whisper something else, too quiet for him to hear. Whatever Ernie says, it causes Stiles’ face to tense further, his ears reddening. To the Sheriff’s disgust, Ernie then inches his face toward his son again, hovering for a moment before leaning forward to press his mouth against Stiles’.

And at that, Stiles slams his head forward.

It makes contact with Ernie’s nose and there’s a loud cracking sound. But it’s not enough to bring the man down and though he stumbles back, he stays upright, shaking in outrage. The Sheriff can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and although in theory the extra pumping of such a vital organ should produce heat, his whole body is seized with icy panic. Ernie’s blood drips down Stiles’ forehead and after a moment of glaring his son seems to realize how deep he stepped in it, his face paling and his eyes wide.

Ernie only pauses for a moment before stomping forward and wrenching back his fist. It slams into Stiles’ face once… twice… a third time before going for his torso two more times. His hand comes away bloody, but he isn’t satisfied. Stiles is hunched over against his restraints and the Sheriff can’t see his face, but something thick and red is dripping from his nose and his mouth, and the terror that had been stabbing at his veins attacks with a renewed vigor.

Ernie turns to the other man (neither of them are laughing now) and the man gives him a nod.

Then he takes his steel-toed boot and slams it into the top of Stiles’ bare foot, pressing down with all his weight. There’s a sickening crunch as the bone breaks and Stiles’ shoulders hunch together, his face scrunched up as a low moan escapes his gag.

The Sheriff thinks it’s over. But he looks between the two and realizes with dread that that wasn’t his kid’s punishment. Ernie removes a knife from under his jacket. For a brief moment, the man’s eyes flick toward him, considering, but with the very slightest shake of his head Ernie continues moving toward Stiles.

The Sheriff wasn’t even aware of just how much noise he was making, but now that he is, he only intensifies it, struggling and straining against his ropes, hoping to force the chair to tip, to break, _anything_.

He expects the man to plunge the knife into his kid’s gut, or to slit the boy’s throat, but he cuts the ropes tying his ankles, and then those around his wrists, and then he starts _dragging_ Stiles away.

The Sheriff briefly wonders if this is their sick way of trying to spare him some nightmares by not murdering his kid in front of him but then the man puts the knife away (because he doesn’t need it for what he’s going to do) and Stiles is struggling. His son can’t even walk with his foot broken, and all he can do is try to grab onto things near him with his good hand (trying in vain to find some kind of purchase in the wall) as the larger, _stronger_ man pulls him toward another doorway in the basement. Teenaged limbs flail, elbowing at his assailant, and Ernie snorts in amusement; the Sheriff thinks – his vision blinded in red – that the man _gets off on it_.

The gag must have fallen away at some point, because he can hear Stiles yelling for the man to let him go, to stop, to _please_ not do this. The two of them are out of his line of sight now, but he can hear Stiles get pushed to the floor and the sound of a door slamming shut.

The Sheriff’s limbs are still straining against his binds when his eyes find the other man’s. His captor just _shrugs_ , as if a teenager isn’t being assaulted the next room over. “It was bound to happen at some point,” he says by way of explanation. “Ernie’s been itching for him all night.” He wonders if the man can see the rage in his eyes, because he starts to look anxious. “It’s not like he’s gonna kill him or anything. Gerard would be furious. Still has use for the kid, I guess.”

There’s a crash from the other room, and he can hear Ernie swear. There’s a muffled sound of scuffling, and he hears Ernie’s voice again, loud and demanding, yelling, “Hold still, you little shit!”

The Sheriff can feel the results of his struggles as his blood seeps from under his ropes and he tries to make his fingers squish together as compactly as possible in an attempt to use the slickness of his blood as a lubricant, squeezing and pulling to free his arms. But the knots are still too tight and his wrists too thick to slide through, and he can’t feel anything but despair and failure as he continues his useless thrashing. 

From behind the door he hears a scream, followed by a loud, desperate, “Stop!” 

And then there’s a howl.

A crash sounds from upstairs followed by the noise of the basement door being ripped off its hinges.

The Sheriff has an instinctive feeling the cavalry has finally arrived.

Several pairs of feet descend the stairs in a furious rush of motion, and if he wasn’t already at nerves end worried about his son, he might have had a stronger reaction to the demonic looking faces of the three men leaping to the basement floor. But as it is, the Sheriff has been reserving all of his stress and worry for Stiles, and in comparison the demons don’t even register.

And besides, he can recognize one of those demons instantly as Scott McCall, so at least he knows they are on his side.

His captors clearly know that, too, because the one in front of him wrenches out his knife, lunging for the closest newcomer, who the Sheriff believes shares a striking resemblance to a one Derek Hale. The Derek-Hale-looking-demon shoves the man carelessly to the side, making a beeline for door behind which his son is being kept. He growls something unintelligible and the third one (who looks an awful lot like Isaac Lahey) goes for the man he just threw like a sack of potatoes and begins what the Sheriff can only describe as beating the living shit out of him.

The door opens before the Hale can even reach it and Ernie stumbles out, his face sporting a fresh-looking bruise, knife in hand, (zipper undone, pants in disarray), and lunges for the pair. But Hale (whom he’s gaining a newfound appreciation of) grabs him by the neck and starts squeezing, (not enough to kill, but definitely enough to hurt) drawing blood where his claws dig in, and tosses him into a wall, barking at Scott to take care of him. 

Hale rushes out of sight and into the small room where his son was being attacked and the Sheriff strains his neck to see what’s happening. After all the effort expended taking those men down (and because of the presence of Scott), the Sheriff is reasonably sure that the Hale is going in there to help his son. But it’s still a _Derek_ - _Hale_ -looking- _demon_ -creature, so he still feels more than a little anxious. He wants nothing more than to be free of these ropes so he can wrap his kid in a bear hug and not let go until the doctors at the hospital forcefully pry him off. 

From behind him, he can hear Isaac say, “This one’s all tied up,” and hears his footsteps behind him heading for the other two teenagers. In his line of sight, he sees Scott finish tying up the other one and look up, finally seeming to remember he’s there, and he rushes over. 

“Try not to freak out,” he mutters, probably before realizing he already has his monster-face on, and grimaces, using his claws to cut at the ropes on his ankles and on his wrists. 

The Sheriff is already on his feet and pushing him out of the way, wrenching the gag from his mouth as he moves to rush toward his son.

Hale’s face has shifted back to normal when he reaches the threshold, and he’s on the ground beside Stiles, looking completely unsure of how to help and not knowing what to do with his hands as Stiles bats them away. He can’t help but notice how red and puffed out his son’s cheeks are, or the tear tracks running down his face. There’s blood smeared from where he clearly attempted to wipe at the moisture. He’s trying to fix his pants, but his fingers are broken on one of his hands and his other hand is shaking so badly he can’t seem to get a grip on the material, and Hale is clearly out of his depths on trying to help.

Hale makes another reach toward him, and Stiles snaps, “I can do this myself, Dude. I’m not entirely helpless.” Hale draws his hand back slowly, and they still at his sides. 

The Sheriff takes a step forward and Stiles looks up, alarmed, his hands still trembling in his lap, but before his son can move he drops down, both desperate to get his arms around him and careful not to jostle his injuries. He can feel himself sobbing, and he can feel Stiles sobbing, and he knows Hale is trying not to stare at them but is trapped in the small room, obviously uncomfortable (though the Sheriff couldn’t care less about that, or anything else for that matter now that he has his son back in his arms).

They stay like that for several minutes, the time punctuated by their alternating hiccups, when he finally hears Stiles whisper something into his chest and Hale jumps abruptly to his feet from the corner they’ve trapped him in.

“What?” The Sheriff asks, pulling away from his son.

Stiles swallows, his voice still a bit horse as he speaks, “Not that I don’t totally dig the awesome hugging thing we’ve got going on, but I think we should get to the hospital.” And Stiles gestures at his broken fingers and his broken foot, and basically all of him.

The Sheriff nods, and shakily tries to pull Stiles to his feet. The movement’s easier then he expects, and he notices Hale on Stiles' other side, supporting the majority of his son’s weight. He has no idea when they became friends; neither does Stiles, either, if his look of surprise is anything to judge by. And maybe on another night it’ll click how strange it is that a twenty-three-year-old seems so invested in his sixteen-year-old son, but at the moment he’s too emotionally and physically exhausted to care where the help is coming from.

They trudge (awkwardly) through the doorway and when they come through the other side, Erica and Boyd are gone, Isaac is watching their former captors with a look of disgust, and Scott, too, is nowhere to be seen.

Before he can ask, Isaac explains, “He went to get the car.”

There’s footsteps upstairs (more than can just be Scott) and he feels his pulse quicken. Hale, next to him, supplies this time: “The police and the Argents.”

“The Argents?” he asks distastefully, because right now when he thinks of the Argents he thinks of the people who kidnapped and tortured his sixteen-year-old son.

“The ones not trying to kill us,” Isaac answers helpfully. A squadron of his officers descend the stairs followed (to his relief) by several paramedics with a stretcher. 

Scott is trailing behind them anxiously, and calls out, “I thought they might be better than a car.”

While his officers mirandize the two men (who look, to his satisfaction, even more damaged than his son), the paramedics set to securing Stiles, who fidgets the whole time and offers them a semi-sardonic wave while he’s carried away.

When he finally has a moment to breathe, he spends the ambulance ride gripping his son’s uninjured hand tightly and wondering exactly what the hell happened down there.

***

Although Scott followed the ambulance to the hospital, it’s been more than a half hour since the kid walked down the hall to grab the two of them some coffee. Stiles is still in surgery, and if someone can fill in the many blanks about the horrific events of the night, it’ll be Scott. The Sheriff taps his fingers anxiously against his knees, frustrated with Scott’s avoidance because the night has already been massively stressful as it is, and he would feel a heck of a lot better if he understood what was happening.

So he tries a different tactic, which might not be one-hundred percent truthful, but which is more likely to elicit a positive response, and mutters in a low voice: “I don’t know if you can hear me, Scott, but if you can I want you to know I’m not mad at you. I just want to know what happened. Do you mind coming back and answering some questions?”

He’s taking a leap about the heightened hearing thing. At the Argent’s, Hale had known what was happening above them when his officers arrived, and had been able to hear Stiles when his son’s voice had been muffled into his chest. And after everything he’s witnessed so far, it would make sense. It was worth a shot. At worst, he was wasting his breath; at best, Scott will come running and finally answer his many questions.

Another minute or two rolls past before Scott awkwardly clambers back down the hallway and slinks into the seat next to him, empty handed.

They sit in silence for another minute.

“So,” the Sheriff says, deciding to break the silence, “Care to explain to me what the hell happened back there?”

It's like all the air leaves the teen at once. Defeatedly, he sighs, running a hand through his hair. Then, with a speed of talking that even Stiles would have trouble keeping up with, he rambles: “So a few months ago I was in the woods with Stiles and a werewolf attacked and bit me and Stiles figured out what happened and has been helping me and we thought Derek Hale was the one who did it but it wasn’t and he’s just a creeper who doesn’t know how to use his stupid words and it was actually Derek’s crazy uncle Peter who tried to kill us and then we set him on fire and Derek ripped his throat out and became the Alpha and turned Isaac and Erica and Boyd but now his Uncle’s alive again and there’s this stuff with the kanima…”

The Sheriff holds up a hand and Scott shuts up, and after running his hand along his face, he asks, “Werewolves?”

Scott swallows thickly, rubbing at his hands. “Yeah. Um. Superstrength and speedy healing and that scary face thing and claws and stuff. And, um, superhearing, too, obviously.”

“And is… is Stiles?”

“No!” Scott says, shaking his head quickly. “No, he’s just been helping me deal with it and reads up on everything so that we can know what’s going on.”

The Sheriff releases a sigh of relief. “And has Hale been hanging around my kid a lot?” he has to ask.

Scott kind of half shrugs, half shakes his head. “Not, like, an excessive amount.”

“Are they friends?”

“Not really,” Scott says. “I don’t think so, at least.”

“Okay,” the Sheriff takes a deep breath. “Okay, so how did you find us?”

Scott looks at him and kind of shrinks a little. “It was kind of a fluke,” he admits. “After the kanima thing… I mean, I was _about_ to go keep looking for Stiles, but Allison needed to tell me something, so I figured I’d bring her home and patrol the area after, but when we got near the house I could hear Stiles yelling, so I let out a howl for the rest of them to hear and ran the rest of the way to the house. Derek and Isaac weren’t far behind me and we all got down the stairs at about the same time. And… yeah. That’s about it.”

He’s torn between frustration that Stiles hadn’t been on the top of his best friend’s priority list, and relief that because of that he was saved sooner. So he decides to leave that particular nugget of mulling for another day and moves on to another pressing question. The one that’s been bothering him the most.

“Okay,” and he nods, his hands fighting to remain steady on his knees, “Last big question and then I’ll let you go: _Why did they take my son?”_

Scott bites his lip, and shrugs a little. “I… I think it was as a message to me, not to step out of line. Or… or it was supposed to be a distraction from the kanima thing.” The Sheriff still doesn’t know what the kanima is, and is about to ask when Scott continues. “I mean, they’re supposed to have a code, the Hunters. They’re not supposed to kidnap teenagers, especially _normal_ teenagers like Stiles. Allison’s dad is _furious_. You don’t even know. Or maybe you do,” he says lamely when he glances up at the Sheriff’s face. “But the Hunters aren’t supposed to do that, and if Gerard Argent wasn’t already dead or dying or whatever, I don’t know whether the Hunters or the Wolves would tear him apart first.”

If anything, the Sheriff is more confused by the answers he’s receiving. He’s never heard of a kanima until tonight, and would like to know what Scott means when he refers to the Hunters. But he’s mostly concerned about what Scott had said about Gerard Argent.

“So Argent’s dead, then?” he asks, because he feels robbed of enacting his own brand of retribution.

Scott glances at him nervously, toying with the hem of his shirt. “Um, yeah,” he says. “Well, we think so at least. It was kinda unclear. I mean, if he’s not dead, he’s dying, and if he doesn’t die on his own, there are like a million people who want him dead right now, so I don’t think you need to worry about him going after Stiles again or anything.”

Despite Scott’s reassurances, he feels little comfort about Argent. He thinks he would feel quite a bit better if he could have put a bullet in the man himself.

Scott watches him for a reaction, then he seems to think of something and adds. “Oh, and Isaac caught the guy who took your patrol car. He was, like, in your house drinking a beer or something, like he was pretending to be you. Wierdo.”

The Sheriff twitches at that, but at least another one of the bastards who participated in his kid’s abduction is in custody. All the Sheriff does is nod.

They’re silent together for several minutes before Scott asks, “Stiles is going to be okay, right?”

The Sheriff nods sharply. “He’s a tough kid. He’ll be okay eventually.”

Scott nods. They sit again in silence until the doctors finally tell them Stiles is out of surgery.

***

Little by little, they talk about werewolves and about the miscellaneous other supernatural creatures plaguing their town. Although Stiles is a bit more convoluted in his speaking approach, he’s also somehow much more articulate than Scott, and now that everything is out in the open and all the secrets are no longer secrets, their relationship is a lot less strained.

They talk about a lot of things now. Werewolf things, the problems of having all the friends in your peer group moonlighting as supernatural creatures…

Eventually, they even talk about what happened in the Argent’s basement, though Stiles is stiff and far less responsive during _that_ conversation.

In the two weeks that have passed since then, he’s noticed differences in his son’s behavior. Despite the boy’s constant reassurances that he’s fine, the Sheriff can see the changes. How he flinches when someone touches him, how he jumps at every sound. He still grins wryly and laughs at silly things, but the Sheriff can see a newfound hardness in his eyes and a tension in his smiles.

The only time he sees Stiles really smile since that night is when Derek Hale makes a surprising and awkwardly-executed visit to their front door. The occasion leaves Stiles so hysterical that he has to sit down on the stairs (laying his crutches next to him) and through his snickering manages to get out something about how this is so much better than bedroom windows and lurking in dark corners. 

And the Sheriff has to admit that Hale looks painfully out of place with his belligerent frown and worn-out leather jacket standing on their sunlight porch in the middle of the afternoon, bright green grass and clear blue skies as his backdrop. Hale steps in long enough to hand Stiles a card (in a mangled envelop), snarl, and turn heel, face flustered and ears bright red.

When Stiles has finally calmed down enough to tear it open with his good hand, he snorts, turning it toward his father. The Sheriff feels himself smirk as he eyes the vibrantly colored card with a cartoon puppy that says “Get Well Soon!” There’s nothing written inside.

The Sheriff hangs it on Stiles’ wall directly in sight of the window, as per his son’s request. Whenever he sees Stiles staring at the card, he notices the boy’s lips quirk upwards.

***

Having finally learned about the various supernatural creatures in their lives, the Sheriff has also become far less blind to the comings and goings in his house. He notices every sound, and every shuffle. So he knows when a certain twenty-three-year-old is climbing through his son’s bedroom window. 

It happened at the hospital, too, though he’d pretended not to notice. He’d pointedly ignored the soft red glow from the other side of the glass, or the way the window would sometimes be cracked open when he was sure he’d closed it. He still wasn’t sure what Hale wanted with his son, but his instinct told him the werewolf wouldn’t harm Stiles.

He listens quietly outside the door and hears no noises; and when he peeks in, the room is empty, except for his sleeping sixteen-year-old, sprawled across his bed, relatively peaceful for a boy who was not-so-long-ago tortured by psychopaths. He leaves after a thorough check of the room and locks the window.

After the fourth time he wonders to himself if he’s becoming paranoid. He checks the window – closed but unlocked – examining every hiding spot he knows about and some he wouldn’t normally suspect. After a few more moments of lingering, and after taking a second to gently squeeze his son’s shoulder, he locks the window and heads back to his room, continuing to listen. He stumbles out of bed when he thinks he hears a window open, but it’s closed by the time he gets there (and unlocked).

The fifth time this happens (a month after the card-giving), the Sheriff decides to take a different approach, and quietly walks into the room, turning to gaze in every direction. He knows he’s not hallucinating the entire thing. He detects things for a living. 

In a low voice he whispers, “Derek, come out now or I grab my shotgun.”

He knows he could be nicer about it, but he’s tired and it’s one in the morning, and he just worked a double, so sue him.

From a shadowy corner of the room (a corner he’s checked several times already), Derek makes his miraculous emergence, grimacing and looking decidedly putout. The Sheriff has a moment where he envies the man’s stealth. But then he remembers that said man used it to sneak into his teenaged son’s bedroom and he feels less kinship.

He gestures to the bedroom door and waits for Derek to stalk out before following him, pointing to the stairs, and then to the kitchen. For a man who’s practically invulnerable, Derek looks like he’s walking to the gallows.

The Sheriff takes a cruel amount of joy from the look on his face when he offers him coffee.

Derek is too shocked to decline and the Sheriff’s too tired not to have coffee, so after fixing their cups, he slides one under Derek’s rigid hand and sits across from him. He intentionally waits until Derek is taking a sip to start talking.

“So, may I ask why you’re sneaking into my teenaged son’s bedroom for the fifth night in a less than a month?”

On cue, Derek spits up his drink.

“Now, listen,” the Sheriff continues. “I appreciate all your help with those hunters. Really, I do. And I’ve been trying to be lenient because of it. Plus, that card you gave my boy really perked him up, and it’s nice to see him smile again. But you’re a twenty-three-year-old man, and it really concerns me that you’re crawling in through my son’s window in the dead of night.”

Derek swallows hard and takes another sip of the coffee before releasing a heavy sigh and staring at the table. “I just… I just want to make sure he’s safe.”

He looks utterly mortified at the confession.

“Every night?” the Sheriff prods.

Derek nods.

“Even though he’s sixteen?”

Derek looks up at him sharply. “I’m only checking on him,” he says defensively. “I would never… especially after what… Jesus, I’m not some creep!”

“Scott disagrees.”

“Scott’s an idiot.”

“Fair," he allows, because the boy does have his moments, "but it does stand to reason that you’re _creeping_ into my son’s bedroom. At night. Without either of our knowledge.”

“ _You_ know,” Derek accuses, and then stares at the table. He’s silent for another few moments, before he starts again. “If he didn’t know all of us, he wouldn’t have gotten hurt. I didn’t even know he was missing last time until after the fact. I just… I just want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“You care about him?” the Sheriff asks, because he deserves to know, and because even if Derek is a creep, at least he’s a creep with super-strength who’s saved his kid at least once already.

Derek groans, keeping his eyes on the table.

“Derek?” the Sheriff prompts again.

“Yeah, fine, okay. I care about the dumbass. Happy?”

Derek’s so flustered he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the extra heartbeat, or what couldn’t have _possibly_ been a quiet hobble from his cast-wearing son, because from over the man’s shoulder he can see Stiles peeking into the kitchen, a soft, victorious smile on his lips. The boy lets loose a triumphant, flailing air punch (almost losing a crutch in the process) before he retreats, clumsily ambling away. 

When he’s gone, the Sheriff releases a sigh and nods. “Yeah, I am.”

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. This is my first fic in a long while, and the first I've posted to AO3. Hope you enjoyed it! I'd like to thank Stormysaslytherin and Fantasyworld for acting as lovely betas. You're the best!
> 
> I apologize if I messed up with tagging or archived it wrong! It's 'cause I'm bad at things. And new. Well, to here, at least.... Um. Yeah. So. Thanks! :)


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